


Beneath the Music

by twobirdsonesong



Series: Prufrock Verse [6]
Category: CrissColfer - Fandom, Glee RPF
Genre: Christmas, Dancing, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Prufrock verse, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just need to take a moment for a dance with a boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the Music

It’s the third year in a row, but Chris doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how strange it is to film a Christmas episode when the sticky webs and rotted pumpkins of Halloween are still lingering on doorsteps.  The imitation layer of snow, scratchy sweaters, and cheap decorations that smell nothing of the hearth and home of a true Christmas chafes at Chris.  It’s fake in a way that’s jarringly, disruptively obvious.  If there’s a Christmas tree in a room, it should smell of dark forests and cold blue nights.  If there are candles on windowsills, they should cast a private little tongue of heat.  And the chill of winter should seep under doors and through clothes and demand that bare fingers twine together for warmth.  And almost none of that happens on the plastic artifice of the set.

Chris should be annoyed that he’s working late into the night while everyone else is off partying and celebrating the election.  But he’s not.  It’s just him and Darren and the scene they’re working on together.  And that’s better than raiding his boss’ liquor cabinet.  The set is mostly empty, if a set bustling with directors and assistants, techs and scripts supervisors, can be considered empty.  But for the first time in what feels like forever, there are no other cast members in the way, no extras milling about.  It’s just him and Darren and the lines and actions between them.  It’s not that Chris doesn’t love and admire his castmates, and it’s not that he doesn’t enjoy working with them – he does.  Of course he does.  But it’s  _more_  with Darren, in a way that Chris can’t let himself stop and think about.  It always has been.

“Hey, you.”

Chris looks up from the spot on the floor of the choir room he’s been staring at for at least five minutes.  It’s a scuffmark from his boots, made back in season two, that’s never been scrubbed away.  He thinks he almost remembers the afternoon he made that mark.  Darren’s walking towards him, wearing Blaine’s clothes and Blaine’s hair, but his soft, relaxed expression is all Darren.  They’ve got a few minutes before they’re needed again.  Four years and he still doesn’t understand why the time between set-ups stretches so long.  But Chris hadn’t bothered to go back to his trailer; he knew Darren would find him soon enough.

“What’cha doing in here?”  Darren sits in one of the hard plastic chairs, close enough that their shoulders bump.  Chris shifts until his thigh presses against Darren’s.  There’s no one else around to see.

“I like it in here.”

“I know.”  Darren glances around the room and his eyes are full of understanding.

Chris doesn’t need to say that the choir room was the safest place he had for so long.  He doesn’t need to explain to Darren how this set, these chairs, changed his life.  How it gave him everything he has now; that without this show, he might still be stuck somewhere with no escape.  He doesn’t need to say that if things had gone differently, if an audition had gone wrong, or right, if a video on YouTube had been completely ignored, then he may have never met Darren at all.  He doesn’t like to think about what that might have been like.

Darren leans in close, so close his breath ghosts hot across Chris’ cheek.  “Hey, don’t go morose on me,” he whispers.  “Brighten up your eyes.  It’s fucking Christmas, ok?”

Chris laughs, a quick burst of breath.  He can’t help it.  “It’s November.”

“Useless, meaningless semantics.”  Darren’s nose ruffles Chris’ sideburn and Chris shivers.  “Does it feel like Christmas?”

Chris thinks about the big fake Christmas tree and the plastic lights and the candles with no scent at all.  “Not quite.”

Darren stands from the chair, a slow, easy movement, and reaches his hand out towards Chris.  Chris would laugh at the gesture too, because it’s just so goddamn  _Darren_ , but it’s not really funny at all.

“Dance with me.”

Chris slides his hand into Darren’s and lets Darren pull him up from the chair, as though he weighs nothing at all.  Darren’s eyes are luminous and there’s a grin twitching at his lips as tugs Chris close to his body.  Chris doesn’t even bother to mention that there’s no music; there’s always a song in Darren’s head and his heart.  Sometimes, Chris thinks he can hear the strains of it when Darren calls out his name or sighs  _good morning_ into the curve of his throat.  Darren’s fingers twine with his as he tucks their hands up against his chest and his other arm coils around Chris’ waist, holding him near.  Chris settles into it and rests his cheek against Darren’s temple as Darren begins to slowly sway them to the rhythm in his blood.

Years of practice, and he’s only just becoming comfortable with  _this_  – the chaste, yet intimate press of bodies when they dance together.  And Darren loves to dance: in the kitchen with his hands on Chris’ hips when he’s trying not to burn the risotto; tripping over the rug in Chris’ living room; grinding slow and sweet in front of Chris’ closet when he’s attempting to get dressed in the morning.  It’s almost easier when they’re naked, when there’s no strange barrier of clothes and no sense that closeness isn’t the right thing to do.  Where there are shirts and pants and belt buckles in the way, it feels like there should be some sort of distance between them.  But dancing – hands and hips and a heartbeat rhythm – dancing removes that distance completely.  Chris is happy to get used to it.

Chris smiles, sighs, and squeezes Darren’s hand tighter as Darren begins to dance them in a slow circle.  He can feel the rumble in Darren’s chest as he hums the opening bars of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“Does it feel like Christmas now?” Darren asks.

“Getting there.  It’d help if you smelled like Yule logs and pumpkin pie.”

“I think that’s a new fragrance from Calvin Klein.”

“Don’t spoil your Christmas present.” Chris hides his smile in Darren’s hair.

“So I  _am_  getting a Christmas present?” Darren’s pace picks up a bit, and Chris lets his body follow Darren’s relaxed, easy movements.  He’s glad no one’s watching.  He doesn’t want to share this with anyone else.

“You got one last year, didn’t you?” Chris thinks about shredded wrapping paper on his floor and shiny ribbon draped around his neck. 

Darren laughs. “Yes, yes I did.”  Darren spins them around then, a quick turn that only years of choreography training keep Chris from tripping over his own feet, or Darren’s. 

Chris is taller, but Darren is strong and so confident in his body, and he tends to lead when they dance.  Chris is happy to follow.  His body bends, twists and curves, to the subtle pressure of Darren’s hands on his hips and his arm coiled around his back.  And Chris is flexible; his body bows easily and his back arches across the strength of Darren’s arm when Darren dips him low.

“Speaking of Christmas presents,” Darren begins, holding Chris in a dip as though he’s weightless.

“I told you I don’t want anything.” It’s almost true.

“Liar.”  Darren’s nose brushes against Chris’ as he finally pulls back and lifts Chris up with him.  He draws Chris in close to his body again and leans his temple against Chris’ jaw.  He’s so warm, even through the layers of his costume.

“I know you want that ring in your future,” Darren whispers lowly, like it’s a secret he knows he wasn’t supposed to say, but can’t hold in any longer. 

Chris’ breath hitches and he stumbles a step.  It’s something they don’t talk about – can’t talk about.  He said it in an interview once and has regretted it ever since.  He’s regretted the expectations it’s somehow woven around him, and them.  He doesn’t want Darren to think he expects anything at all from them.

“Yes,” he murmurs, so soft it feels like little more than breath.  But he won’t lie, not to Darren.  The product in Darren’s hair is sweetly fragrant and it sharply recalls exhausted moments of need in trailers and endless, devastating nights in bars with no escape.  “But I’m not in a hurry.” His heart is beating a touch too fast and he’s sure Darren can feel it. 

Darren just smiles and brushes his lips across the line of Chris’ cheekbone.  “Of course not.”  His long eyelashes flutter against Chris’ shivering skin.  Darren’s fingers interlock with his and come to rest over his heart.

Chris knows they can’t have much longer before someone comes looking for them, they are at work, after all, but Darren is humming again and Chris is sure there’s time enough for another dance.


End file.
